


Apex Predator

by grace_of_baal



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Werewolves, lycanthropy au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2585900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grace_of_baal/pseuds/grace_of_baal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eerie howls are heard in the streets of Baltimore, and the FBI is tasked with flushing out a savage killer that may or may not be entirely human. Soon after his curiosity is piqued by the investigation, an unexpected incident grants Hannibal Lecter the ability to unleash another beast upon the city, one just as brutal and intelligent as the Chesapeake Ripper, and perhaps even more bloodthirsty - but this comes at a price. Meanwhile, Will Graham is troubled by the piling bodies and Hannibal’s recovery from a supposed "dog" bite...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Howls

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write a werewolf story and this seemed like a very fun universe to do it in, not to mention the Hannibal character himself. Both major and minor edits are likely to follow, as I only have a tentative chapter plan as of now, but said tentative plan is for around 11 or 12 chapters. Hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is unsettled by a brutal new killer whose mind he cannot understand.

Will closed his eyes, but entering the killer’s mind didn't come easily. He corrected himself. It was never _easy_ , but this time, it was different.

It was no surprise to him. There was some doubt as to the killer even being human; at at first glance, one would expect the contrary. The two bodies were discovered several blocks apart, a man and woman. A postman was immensely regretting taking a shortcut through an alley for his morning route, which was how he had stumbled upon one of the corpses. The other had been found by a jogger. The two victims were unrelated, and so far, the FBI had failed to find any connection between them. Both were nearly completely torn apart and in pieces. They had died from the accumulation of their injuries; there hadn't been a single fatal wound between the two.

Will would have thought the culprit was an animal like everyone else - perhaps a mad dog or a wolf - but there was something about the crime scene photos that had compelled him to investigate it for himself before they cleared it. He was starting with the man, an ordinary businessperson named Tim Walker.

He opened his eyes and knelt down next to the body. He could feel Jack’s gaze hard on his back. No doubt the agent noticed how abruptly Will had moved, much more so than when he usually reenacted crimes inside his head. Despite himself, Will grimaced. He determined that it was indeed highly unlikely that the jagged furrows in Walker’s corpse could have been inflicted by a human being. Yet… why was it that he could feel a murderer in this scene?

“So… you still think this wasn't done by an animal?” Jack pushed when the silence stretched on for too long. He hadn't taken his eyes off Will the entire time. Will couldn't look away from the corpse. Something about it unsettled him deeply, and it wasn't simply the gruesomeness of the wounds. He knew animals well, and this kill felt so wrong. Unnatural, even.

Will took his time in replying. “It wasn't a person,” he said slowly, attempting to put his thoughts into words, “but it doesn't feel like an animal, either.”

“What are you saying, Will?” Jack’s exasperation mirrored the faces of Zeller, Price and Beverly, who looked up from their work of taking samples and photographs of the scene.

“There’s an intelligence about this,” Will said, standing up to face Jack. “A normal animal would have gone straight for the throat, not have toyed with its prey quite so much. Look at the wounds - the victims would have died slowly, painfully. In sheer terror. Not to mention that it’s strange that the attack seems to have had no other purpose - no part of the victims were eaten, were they?”

“No,” Price confirmed, flipping through a file, “nothing. Lots of pieces everywhere, but nothing missing.”

Jack’s lips were set in a hard line while Zeller and Price busied themselves taking photographs again. Beverly stood and crossed her arms over her chest. “You sure it wasn't rabid or something?” Zeller asked between shutter clicks.

Will shook his head. “I told you, this… whatever it is, feels intelligent. It’s not a bestial intelligence, either, but something more. The frenzy of a rabid animal isn't there; this kill was methodical and brutal. You won’t find the virus in the wounds.”

“Something more?” Beverly repeated, doubtful.

Will swallowed, taking off his glasses. “Yeah… almost human.”

“Will - “ She began to say.

Will shook his head, brow furrowed. “Look. This… thing, it killed these people for the sake of killing them. That’s not something animals do.”

“We found hairs on the scene, they weren't human.” Zeller pointed out.

“I know.” Will’s ground his teeth in frustration. “But they weren't of any animals we know of either, am I right?”

Zeller frowned. Will was right.

Jack grunted, “So what are we looking at here, Will? A new species of monstrous dog that has human intelligence and enjoys the sight of blood?”

“Something like that.”

“I can’t accept that.”

“I thought so. Unfortunately, it’s all I can give you at the moment,” Will said, tucking his glasses into his breast pocket.

“ _Jesus_.”

* * *

  
Interviewing some of the residents of the area, Will, Jack and the tech team found that many of them claimed to have heard strange howling noises the night before.

“It was creepy,” a young woman had said, “like something from a horror movie. Not that I watch many of those,” she added with a shiver.

“It wasn't a dog?” Jack had pressed.

“I don’t know, but I’m sure it wasn't one of the neighbourhood dogs. I've been living here for four years and I've never heard anything like it.”

Another man was adamant that the sounds had belonged to a wolf, but his wife argued that the pitch of the howls was too low, the tone off. The FBI had already contacted the zoo about possibly escaped animals, but they denied any such thing. Nevertheless, Jack became more certain that it was simply some kind of animal, and Will felt the opposite. Will was doubtful of it even being a wolf - they were long gone from the wild in Maryland and nearby areas. It was apparent to Will that the creature possessed near-human intelligence. He had yet to fully convince Jack of this.

The team was busy calling and visiting local animal shelters, wildlife control and experts, but they failed to find any leads. Will heard Zeller wondering aloud why it was them handling this case, if it was even a case at all. Apparently, the sheer brutality and gruesome nature of the kills was what made the local police contact them; animal attacks were usually not quite so dramatic. Still, Beverly commented that they may withdraw from active investigation if there were no more incidents. Just a freak accident that might sprout a few urban legends.

* * *

  
“Coming from a crime scene, Will?” Hannibal’s head cocked slightly as he held the door open for him. The agent looked as though he had been dwelling on death for a prolonged amount of time. Hannibal knew the signs all too well. He also noticed that Will’s clothes were more rumpled than usual, his face wind-chapped and a beanie in his gloved hand. An outdoor murder, then.

Will came in, shrugged off his jacket, stripped off the gloves, and sat heavily on the edge of the couch. Rubbing his eyelids with his fingers, he nodded and said, “Hi, Dr. Lecter. Yes. I've… I've never seen anything like it.”

Hannibal didn't prod, but waited patiently, taking a seat at the table and fiddling with his pencil, making a few more marks on a sketch he had been working on before Will had come. He didn't let the silence become uncomfortable.

At last, Will elaborated, “You might already know about them - two bodies were found in Baltimore yesterday morning, badly mauled. We thought it was just an animal at first, but now I’m not so sure any more.”

Hannibal had indeed read about the incidents in the paper earlier. The article had been very vague, but it still managed to interest him; it wasn't often there were gory animal attacks in the middle of the city. At least, that was what the journalist had claimed - that it was an animal attack. If the FBI were investigating it, however… Hannibal put down his pencil. “What made you change your mind?”

“I took a look,” Will said simply. ”The techs couldn't identify what animal it was, first off. The sizes of the wounds and the hair we found didn't match those of any known canine or feline, which is what we at first assumed it was - this creature was probably massive, larger than, say - a Saint Bernard. The jaw strength could have been greater than that of a tiger. The killings took place in the city, and the zoo denied that any of their animals escaped. I doubt a wild animal would wander so far into the city.” Here, he hesitated. “And... I think whatever did it was smart, self-aware - and possibly sadistic.”

Hannibal made a thoughtful noise. “Not quite bestial traits, the sadism in particular.”

“No.” Will agreed. “It drew out their deaths, likely intentionally. I also found it odd that it didn't seem to have consumed any particular parts of the bodies.”

“It killed for enjoyment?”

“That’s what the evidence told me.” Sighing, Will said, “Jack hasn't been able to swallow that, neither have the others. I suppose it seems rather ridiculous. The way I described it, it could be some kind of fairy-tale monster.” Will chuckled humorlessly.

“In this situation, I wouldn't blame them. What do you think it is, Will?” Hannibal stood from the table and came over to the couch.

Will looked up at him. “I don’t know. As I've said, this is the first time I've ever encountered something like this. I couldn't _see_ the killer - I’m quite certain that it wasn't human. It doesn't make _sense_."

“Do you think it will kill again?” Hannibal asked.

“Yes. It liked it, and it’ll want more.”

* * *

  
Two days later, three more bodies were discovered, just as Will had predicted.

Two of them, presumably a couple, in a park in the city - the other a homeless man few kilometres away in an alley. The couple and the man were not related in any way, just like the first pair of victims. Will was certain they were being killed randomly and indiscriminately.

The patterns were the same, but thumbing through the photos, Will thought that the note of savagery in them seemed even more pronounced than before. The killer was becoming more confident, or so it would have one think.

When Will walked into the autopsy room, he only glanced at the bodies on the slabs that Price and Zeller were working on. He knew there was little more he could glean from them. Instead, he turned his attention to Beverly, who was waving him over from the other end of the room.

“There was a footprint left behind this time.” She showed Will a plaster cast. It looked like a wolf or dog’s paw print, judging by the shape of the pads and the imprints of the claws at the tip of each toe. But its size made Will consider it perhaps belonging to a bear instead.

Will started to say, “It’s - “

“Huge. I know,” Beverly sighed, picking up a file. “We've already done some research and this -” she nodded towards the print again - “it shouldn't _exist_ in nature.” Silently, Will agreed with her.

Jack had also walked over, looking less than pleased. “Look, I don’t care if it’s some kind of mutant or a new species of city-dwelling bear, or _fucking Bigfoot_ \- I just need you all to figure out how we can catch it. Wildlife control is having no luck in locating the thing, and if it’s the sort of monster Will claims it is - we need to take care of it, now.”

“Maybe it’s some maniac in an animal suit,” Zeller shrugged helplessly.

“Or a werewolf,” Price chimed in.

Zeller rolled his eyes. “It wasn't even a full moon last night, or when the first bodies were found.”

“You know, not all werewolf myths follow that formula - “

“All right, all right,” Jack interrupted brusquely. “At this point, I’ll believe anything if you can hand over evidence.” He turned to Will. “And there’s no way for you to figure out what it’s thinking, if it’s as intelligent and human as you say?”

“I’m a _criminal_ profiler. I’m telling you, this isn't the work of a person - the reason I think so is _because_ I can’t get inside its head.”

“You've gotta admit, Jack, this is as far from human you can get,” Beverly gestured at the plaster print.

Jack said, frustrated, “There has to be some kind of explanation.”

“Maybe we’ll find one.” Will continued to stare at the print.

“We’d better. This can’t keep going like this, the press is going to go wild.” Jack ran a hand through his cropped hair. “Freddie Lounds got to the scene before us and published photos on TattleCrime, just over an hour ago. The public knows the FBI’s involved.”

“Oh,” said Beverly quietly.

“Oh.” Price and Zeller echoed.

 _Fucking Lounds_. Will’s jaw clenched, but he didn't say this out loud.

* * *

  
Hannibal tapped a finger on the table as he scrolled down the newest article on TattleCrime.com. As usual, he found the writing distasteful, but its contents proved to be fairly interesting. He had to give Lounds credit for her persistence and resourcefulness - she had managed to snap several vivid photos of the scene before the police arrived, and Hannibal knew that would have taken quite an effort on her part.

The state of the bodies was exactly as Will had described to him. Not refined destruction like his own kills, but a pure anarchy of guts and gore. Messy, spontaneous, without meaning. Animalistic. Hannibal could hardly imagine a human being capable of something like this, perhaps not even himself. It seemed like a force of nature. Yet he could also see what Will had meant when he mentioned the somehow distinctly human brand of sadism present. The twisted faces of the victims alone showed him that - the same sight he so relished in seeing in his prey.

Hannibal was intrigued.


	2. Predator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal's pleasant night out is ruined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this update taking so long! I had a busy few weeks of school and the chapter gave me a hard time. Hopefully the next ones will be faster - I do have more of them written than I did for this, haha. Also, I realized pretty recently that the whole 'animal' case and the way it was talked about is quite similar to that of Randall in Shi-zakana, but I swear I was hardly thinking about him while writing - so all similarities to that are unintentional.

Will was simply so _tired_.

Corpse after corpse. They kept on turning up. The bestial killer hadn't killed for several days, as though he knew of the FBI’s attention on him. As if on cue, the Chesapeake Ripper had swooped in to take his place. There had been two bodies so far, both in elaborately arranged tableaus of death; Will had to begrudgingly admit their artistry. A third was bound to drop soon, considering the Ripper’s usual modus operandi. True to the Ripper’s trademark meticulousness, the recent bodies provided nothing that linked the killer to anything. The FBI was no closer to capturing the killer, much less unravelling his identity. Jack was agitated, and the Quantico headquarters proved to be an even less pleasant place than usual to be present in. Will spent much of his time mulling over the bodies in the morgue, if only to be left alone for as long as possible.

On Thursday night, the “animal” finally struck again. The grotesqueness of the corpse rivalled the Ripper’s work, although with none of the surgical precision the latter killed with. The story finally moved to the front page of the newspapers, accompanying reports on the Ripper’s latest victim. Freddie Lounds had indeed done an excellent job of encouraging panic and hysteria with her article - even the major papers were now peppered with mentions of the FBI’s investigation of the killer. Jack was less than pleased with this development.

Will confessed his stress to Hannibal during his session. He figured there was no reason to hide anything. Even if he tried, Hannibal was far too perceptive to be fooled.

“I feel powerless,” Will said.

His fingers steepled, Hannibal regarded him with a shadow of what could have been worry on his face. “There’s nothing you can do, is there?”

“No. We just keep waiting for the bodies to show up, hoping that the killers will miscalculate. I know they won’t. The Ripper has full mastery over his craft and the other one… well, animals don’t _miscalculate_ per se.”

“But you still think the killer isn't an animal.”

Will nodded.

“And Agent Crawford?”

“The latest victim hasn't made him change his mind. It’s not surprising. It was the messiest kill yet…  but to me, it was the one that felt _most_ human. Everyone thinks there’s some explanation. This thing… it’s clever, it’s a _serial killer_. Its methods are escalating. I've never seen this kind of behaviour in any known animal, rabid or cognitively impaired or not.”

“What is it about this killer that disturbs you so profoundly, Will?”

It was true. Hannibal was seeing right through him. The case was shaking Will to the core, more so than even the Ripper murders, and even he wasn't fully sure why.

“It’s unnatural,” said Will finally. “If it’s a man, the amount of primal savagery within him is horrifying. If it’s indeed an animal….” He swallowed. “I place more trust in animals than in fellow human beings. They’re pure, and that gives me comfort. It… frightens me to see one gone so very _wrong_.”

Will’s eyes wandered to the statue behind Hannibal - the bronze-cast stag on its wooden stand. Behind his lids, Will saw a flash of the majestic creature, its throat between a pair of serrated jaws, dark blood matting the shining fur. It looked to him like the stag’s antlered head was raised in a silent, agonized bellow.

* * *

Hannibal came home from the opera feeling refreshed and inspired. After changing out of his formal clothes, he went to the kitchen and browsed his rolodex, soon settling on a particular business card. He spent more time selecting a recipe from his collection; there were some older dishes he wished to revisit in the near future, but there were also several new additions that he wanted to experiment with... 

The Ripper was to claim his last pig of the sounder tonight. Hannibal could tell the cases were taking their toll on Will, who had come into his session looking visibly drained by his day’s work. Agent Crawford was pushing his bloodhound very hard, perhaps a bit too hard… Hannibal allowed a smile. It hadn't been completely his intention to have his murders overlap with the so-called animal’s, but it did provide him with some amusement to see the FBI be completely overwhelmed and fumble their way through both investigations.

He drove downtown to locate his chosen victim. As per usual, the kill was smooth and effortless. He was a seasoned predator stalking oblivious prey, and his years of experience ensured that his hunts were always successful. Hannibal enjoyed the desperate wheezes like a musician would applause on a stage. This _was_ his stage, and he was a performer - elegant, graceful, brutal, merciless.

It was pouring outside when Hannibal exited the bank, in which he had left a senior manager who worked in it - splayed across the lobby with bills stuffed in his throat and eviscerated stomach. It wasn't often a man died literally choking on the wealth he held so dear, and Hannibal thought it a fitting ending for the swindling banker. Wiping wet hair from his eyes, Hannibal went to the back entrance where he had parked his car, and packed his night’s harvests into the trunk.

It was after the final organ was safely in the cooler when he noticed an odd, pungent scent in the air, mingled with the dampness of the rain. It wasn't anything he had smelled before, yet strangely familiar. It took a moment for him to place it. Something animal, something wild… _Dog_. It was like Will Graham’s dogs.

Hannibal shut the trunk.

Even through the pounding raindrops, he heard a low rumbling sound -  much like the sound of engines -  from the shadows cast in the nearby alleyway, the same place the smell was coming from. The noise of a massive pair of lungs. It was difficult to make out the shape of their owner in the dark and rain, and it was not any animal Hannibal had ever seen before.

It approached him slowly and with purpose, and it looked to Hannibal that it was almost taking pleasure in its clear position of superior power. Not unlike himself when he hunted, Hannibal thought. He kept his eyes trained on the creature, committing its features to memory as it came into the light cast by a nearby street lamp. Rather wolf-like, but not quite a typical grey wolf - its head and torso were oversized, teeth jutting raggedly from an abnormally wide snout, ears and forelegs strangely shaped. Hannibal also saw that the claws attached to the toes were far too long and sharp for any canine. As it drew closer, he became aware of its massive size, obviously bigger than a wolf. Its eyes were amber. Still a wolf, then? A deformed specimen, perhaps? If that was the case, it didn't seem at all handicapped by its odd proportions.

Wild wolves normally didn't attack humans unprovoked. Wild wolves supposedly didn't even _exist_ in this part of the country, much less in downtown Baltimore. Hannibal was sure that this wasn't _canis lupus,_ nor any other canid he was aware of.

His skin was prickling. He wasn't afraid, but his baser instincts were telling him that he should be. He had quickly come to the conclusion that this must be the beast the FBI were after, and there was indeed something more than animal about it. The thing stopped several paces from Hannibal. He watched it and it stared back, its yellow gaze piercing. For the duration of one long, drawn-out breath, neither moved.

Experimentally, Hannibal took one step back, his hand slipping into his pocket to find his scalpel. And then, the creature’s lips drew back in a silent snarl, baring its teeth -

Even Hannibal wasn't able to fully grasp what was happening. The creature was horribly fast, and Hannibal wondered how it was able to cover the distance between them in a single bound without a running start. The claws came swinging at him and he managed to dodge out of the way, but a split second later, a tremendous weight barrelled into his chest, easily smashing him to the ground and driving the air from his lungs. The back of his head knocked against the pavement and he saw stars - it was all he could do to keep his hand clenched tightly around the scalpel. The beast was on top of him. He could hardly breathe with the thing crushing his torso, and he thought he felt a rib or two bruise under the pressure.

And then, an explosion of agony blinded him momentarily. He sucked in air sharply through his teeth. The overpowering musky stench of the creature hit him nearly as hard as the pain had, and Hannibal could see nothing but a blur of dark fur filling his field of vision. The fingers of his free hand, grasping at the creature, caught hold of something that felt like an ear. It became clear to Hannibal that the creature had him between its jaws by the shoulder and chest, shaking back and forth, quickly mangling the suit and flesh underneath. He that knew he had very little time left; there was only so much more of this his body could endure.

It wasn't often that Hannibal left his fate to chance. It was even less often that it came to a situation where he had no choice but to do so.

He had no way of aiming or judging distance, but his head was swimming with pain and he could think of no other immediate options for saving himself. He swung his scalpel inward with all the strength he could muster, towards where he estimated the creature’s face was. It plunged deeply into fur and flesh, to which Hannibal felt it give a startled jerk - he dragged the blade upward and then to one side, intending to do as much damage as possible, or at least enough to make it release him.

When he was heavily tossed to the ground and into a puddle from the creature's mouth, a glinting of metal from above told Hannibal that even from his considerably disadvantageous position, he had somehow managed to puncture the thing’s eyeball. It was roaring in rage, rearing back and swinging its head from side to side; Hannibal, still not fully recovered from his impact with the ground, could do little but watch. The animal howled, indeed sounding much like a wolf; then miraculously, it turned tail and fled.

Hannibal breathed heavily, lying still even with the rain soaking into his clothes, blinking until he had somewhat regained control of his vision. His arm was still attached to his torso, and that was more than he had initially hoped for. He supposed he was a lucky man.

However, it hardly felt like it. For several long moments, he could hardly move, and when he was finally able to pull himself up to his feet, he felt as weak as an old man. The wolf-creature was nowhere to be seen. Hannibal limped back to his car and gingerly lowered himself into the driver’s seat. He considered cleaning up the blood that he left smeared on the ground, but was unsure if his body would allow him to do so. He decided to let the rain do the work for him, although in truth he doubted he had the time nor strength left to do otherwise. By morning there would be little to no evidence of any of the events that had transpired here.

He took the first-aid kit from the glove compartment. Getting out of his wet coat and jacket proved to be a challenge, but Hannibal finally pulled them off after several minutes of struggling. He bound the general vicinity of the bleeding as best as he could over the shirt and waistcoat - it wasn't a far drive back. Despite the onslaught of light-headedness from the blood loss, which he had been expecting, he somehow managed to steer home without further incident. His leather seat was stained when he exited the car, and Hannibal was surprised when he found that he could not bring himself to care. Unlocking the door and stumbling inside, he collapsed into the closest chair, his eyes threatening to close and stay that way. He knew that would be unwise, so he only allowed himself several minutes of rest before standing unsteadily. He kept his good hand firmly grasped on the wound and blood-soaked bandage until he reached the cupboard in his bathroom. He would worry about the trail of crimson he had made on the floor later.

After untying the damp bandage, getting out of his shirt was another ordeal. He found that the soaked fabric was plastered to him. His patience wearing thin, he finally resorted to peeling it off in one quick motion. It set fire to the wound anew. As much as he detested them, Hannibal judged that painkillers would be beneficial; after swallowing the pills and taking a few moments to steady himself, he cleaned the bite and inspected it in the mirror. The tooth marks roughly formed a circular shape that encompassed the top of the shoulder and the chest. Hannibal saw the places where those teeth had dragged through his flesh when the beast had shook him - deep gouges that were still leaking blood. There were areas that would need stitches, luckily doable by himself, and no doubt the whole wound needed a generous application of antibiotics. And, as he had noted earlier, there was some discolouration at his ribs, the smaller aches beginning to make themselves apparent to him. There was little he could do about those.

He frowned; the wound looked far less serious than it felt. No doubt it was of an impressive size, but Hannibal suspected the discomfort he was currently feeling was disproportionate to the extent of the injury.

All he wished to do now was to lie down, but Hannibal finished suturing, medicating and binding the bite before he did so. It throbbed steadily even through the haze of the painkillers, but his exhaustion dulled the sensation. As he climbed into bed, he attempted to piece together exactly what had happened in the back alley of the bank - what was that animal, and why had it chosen to attack him? Did it _know_ of his identity as the Chesapeake Ripper? It was certainly the closest anyone or anything had come to killing him. Or was it merely an unlucky coincidence? Hannibal was not one to believe in coincidences, and this time was no different. Whatever the case may be, it was quite an interesting turn of events, and Hannibal looked forward to seeing what Will made of it all. 

* * *

 Apparently, there was a sighting of a large dog-like animal in downtown Baltimore the night before. Will tried not to be too hopeful, and no doubt Jack was doing the same. His heart sank when another brutal murder was reported found in the same area - that of a banker, found in his own workplace. Will confirmed that the corpse was the work of the Chesapeake Ripper, but even Zeller and Price were able to figure that much on their own. The man had half-choked to death on a wad of paper bills that were forced down his throat, then had several of his organs cut out of him while he was still alive. More money was found inside his stomach, which the Ripper had left intact for whatever reason; the cash was bloodstained, and was going to be a hassle to get deposited. Re-enacting the crime left Will breathing hard. He would never be able to get used to the Ripper's particular brand of sadism.

“The Ripper has a sick sense of humour, and he’s obviously not interested in cash,” muttered Zeller as he looked over a ruined bill in his gloved hands.

“How much did he stuff in there?” Price asked. Then, as if having changed his mind, he added before Zeller could reply, “Never mind, I don’t want to know."

Will was more concerned about the traces of blood they had found _outside_ the bank, near the parking lot in the back. It was too contaminated by a full night of heavy rain to extract anything of use, but it was still better than nothing. Of course, there was little way of knowing whether it was actually relevant to the Ripper murder. But Will’s instincts told him that it was a possibility. Could it be the Ripper’s blood? He never left evidence behind, so surely he wouldn't start now. Perhaps something had happened to him last night. Perhaps it was connected to the animal sighting. Will had fully expected another mauled corpse to materialize overnight, but there still wasn't one. Or perhaps, he was just over-thinking the situation, as Beverly gently suggested to him.

Only one thing was for certain. The Ripper had completed his sounder, and he would go silent again.

Jack’s disappointment was palpable. Will also tasted a bitterness on his tongue, one that was quite different from the bad taste examining at crime scenes left in his mouth. Something made him think that the beast had been on the prowl the night before, and for whatever reason, it hadn't made a kill. He kept this theory to himself. It wasn't as if Jack already didn't have enough weighing on him - or would believe Will, for the matter. _  
_


	3. Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal gets sick and Will doesn't fail to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm, I'm going to be putting Hannibal through the ringer in this story, but hopefully it'll be worth it for him in the end (hint: it will be). Will is going to feature far more heavily than I originally planned as you might be able to tell from this chapter alone; Hannibal/Will is definitely the central relationship. I wrote this between studying for exams, so sorry again for the long wait. I might be making small edits to it in the future.

Hannibal took extremely meticulous care of his body, and he had a fairly robust immune system. This meant that he rarely fell ill - it had been years since he had caught the flu or the common cold. So, he noticed his slight fever on Saturday morning with some concern. He took his temperature. Nothing extreme, but still worth noting. Was he feeling sick? Hannibal carefully took a mental inventory of his body; he had assumed the soreness was from his ordeal last night. Perhaps that wasn't the case. 

He went to the bathroom and redressed the bite, which was at least beginning to scab, and the stitches were holding up fine; the bruising in his side was a livid purplish colour now, and there was a small lump at the back of his head where it had hit the ground. After wiping the dried blood off the floor from the night that he had left forgotten, Hannibal made himself scrambled eggs and ham. The task proved to be irritatingly more difficult than usual with one of his arms nearly incapacitated. He had no appetite but forced himself to swallow the food. He tried to proceed with his morning routine. Even getting dressed felt draining, but he had several engagements today; cancelling them last-minute would be discourteous.

The appointment with the tailor was gruelling. Hannibal found it a challenge to stop swaying on his feet, and picking a fabric was hardly a priority. The tailor's words, waxing poetic about the clothes, didn't quite make it into his ears. Was it just him, or was the room rotating slowly around them...?

He was being shown some tie patterns when he suddenly felt the urge to vomit. "Excuse me, but I need to use to the restroom." Thankfully, he already knew that it was at the back of the shop. Pushing past the tailor as politely as he possibly could, he made it there on time, and threw up into the toilet. A sorry waste of breakfast. His ribs were screaming at him in protest at the movement, and it took him far too long to regain control of his breathing and heartbeat. He didn't need a thermometer to know that the fever was now much higher. The world seemed to be permanently tilted at an obscene angle and his legs were barely supporting his weight. The bite, meanwhile, continued to ache persistently.

Hannibal felt awful.

Vaguely concerned about his condition and seeing no other choice, he straightened himself as best as he could, emerged from the washroom and ended his appointment with the tailor prematurely. The elderly gentleman was sympathetic; Hannibal wondered if he was visibly ill. It wouldn't surprise him, but he took a certain displeasure in the notion. It wasn't often that Hannibal's picture of perfection showed cracks, especially not to someone like his tailor, as long as he had been employing his services.

Hannibal hailed a cab to take him home, as he didn't think himself capable of driving in his current state. By the time the cab pulled over in front of the house, Hannibal was fighting not to pass out. It was likely that he tipped the driver far too much, but all of his attention was focused on was getting up the steps to the front door. It took him several tries to successfully insert the correct key into the keyhole. He forgot to lock it behind him. After changing into pyjamas, he cancelled his remaining appointments for the day and climbed into bed, falling asleep almost instantly. 

When Hannibal awoke later, he regretted it immensely. His condition had deteriorated significantly. He was simultaneously burning and freezing, sweat soaking into him, and all he could do was to curl in on himself and wrap himself tightly in his sheets. His head was pulsing horribly, but it was nothing compared to the radiating, searing heat coming from the bite. It came in relentless waves, refusing to grant him even a moment’s peace. He could feel himself shaking from fever and pain, unable to sleep nor move.

An indeterminable amount of time later, an intense nausea began to overtake Hannibal, finally forcing him to crawl from his bed and to the bathroom despite his body’s protests. He hadn't eaten since he had thrown up in the morning - not that he had any idea what time it was currently - and his stomach had nothing left to expel. The dry heaves that wracked his body for several moments left him even weaker than he had been, eyes streaming despite his best efforts. He only managed to down half a cup of water without upsetting his stomach further. Making it back into the relative sanctuary of his covers sapped the remainder of his strength, at last lulling him back into an uneasy slumber.

These symptoms were rather... _fascinating_.

* * *

Saturday night, Will was worried from the first time Hannibal didn’t answer the phone. He’d only meant to ask the psychiatrist something in passing. Two more tries later, he knew that something must be wrong - Hannibal was not one to ignore phone calls without prior notice. Neither Jack nor Alana had any contact with him for the past day, either. A short internal debate later, Will reluctantly came to a decision.

It wasn’t often he visited Hannibal’s house, nor anyone else’s, for that matter. Will enjoyed his own personal space and assumed that others preferred it that way as well. He felt out of place in the world as it was; there was little reason for him to attempt to cross thresholds. As he drove, Will considered abandoning the endeavour but the nagging sensation inside him was too strong.

At Hannibal’s doorstep now, Will called Hannibal's cell then his home phone, only to hear the faint sound of a phone ringing from inside the house when he strained his ears. His stomach twisted ominously. He resorted to knocking, then the bell. Nothing. Half-heartedly, Will tried the door, only to find that it was unlocked and easily slid open at his touch. That couldn’t possibly be a good sign _._

_Was Hannibal in trouble?_

“Dr. Lecter? It’s Will Graham!” His voice seemed so loud in the suffocating silence of the vast house. “Can I come in? Dr. Lecter!”

Will searched all the ground floor rooms to no avail; everything was so still. A chair near the front door had a coat flung over it, as if done in haste. Going by the kitchen, he noted the dirty dishes in the sink. he steeled himself and walked up the stairs that undoubtedly led to the bedroom, his fingers trailing on the polished wooden banister. All seemed quiet when Will reached the top of the stairs, but he noticed a door across the hall that was ajar. A sound came from the room; a soft, pained noise, almost like some wounded animal. Will slowly approached it and pushed the door open.

It was a bedroom, probably the size of Will's living room and lavishly decorated like the rest of the house, but Will could not take in any of these details at the moment. Hannibal was in the bed (that Will estimated was large enough to fit at least three more people), and he was barely recognizable. The psychiatrist seemed much smaller than normal, curled in a fetal position and clinging tightly to his sheets, almost as though his life depended on it. Moisture coated his skin and plastered his hair to his face, and Will could detect him trembling from whatever it was that was ailing him. His face was more expressive in unconsciousness than Will had ever witnessed before, incoherent words escaping his lips, possibly not even in English.

Will took a moment to process the sight. He wondered if he should wake Hannibal - but the man was evidently very ill. Perhaps it was better to let him rest. Not that this looked particularly restful… Hesitantly, Will tiptoed closer, even though it was obvious that there was no way Hannibal could possibly be alerted to his presence in the state he was in. Will let his hand hover over Hannibal’s face and bit his lip at the heat he could feel against his skin. _Jesus_ …

He considered calling a doctor or the hospital. He instinctively knew that Hannibal would not be terribly thrilled if he did so. Will himself wouldn't be, had their roles been reversed. He didn't like hospitals... Perhaps if he waited and watched if it became any worse? Will found a chair in the room, pulled it over to the bedside, and sat down. He rummaged through his bag and pulled out a book.

It was two hours later, almost 11 p.m., when Hannibal finally awoke. Will was almost finished the book when he heard movement from next to him.

“Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal’s eyes flickered open and took a beat too long to focus on Will. They were glazed as his pupils dilated, practically sightless. Still, they widened and with obvious effort, his lips parted. “Will? What…” His voice was little more than a barely intelligible rasp.

“I’m so sorry about this - but I was worried when I couldn't get hold of you and… your door was unlocked. I thought something might have happened to you.” The words came tumbling out. Will wasn't sure if Hannibal had even comprehended everything he had said. Hannibal’s hand went up to his forehead, where Will had laid a cold towel on in an attempt to cool him down. He was blinking disorientedly still, plainly confused and his mind seemingly not fully present.

“It’s all right, just… you should rest.” The irony of this statement and situation was not lost on Will. He tried to inject a soothingness into his voice but wasn't sure if he had succeeded. This wasn't something he was used to doing...

Obediently, Hannibal lay back on his pillows again, closed his eyes and almost immediately fell asleep.

It looked to Will that Hannibal was sleeping easier. A quick touch to the arm told Will the fever was lower, and he wasn't shaking quite so much any more. Will went downstairs, fetched a glass from a cupboard in the kitchen, filled it with water, and left it on the bedside stand. Jack had asked him to come to the BAU headquarters again tomorrow morning, despite it being a Sunday, so he figured he would need his sleep as well. He didn't like the idea of leaving Hannibal alone, nor did he want to leave the door unlocked, but there was little he could do. He made a mental note to check back on the psychiatrist tomorrow.

* * *

The persistent ringing of the phone roused Hannibal. He had little idea of what time or day it was, nor how long he had been asleep for. He felt so heavy and weighed down, as if he was fighting to move through a thick liquid. His temples still felt like a hammer was pounding on them and the the bite was strangely numb, but Hannibal could think little of it. The nausea seemed to be gone, at least. He pulled himself upright with effort, and hauled himself free of the damp covers. 

He was mildly impressed that the caller hadn't hung up before he was able to reach the phone on his unsteady legs. “Hello?” Hannibal winced; his voice sounded awful, even to himself.

There was a pause at the other end, as if the caller was thinking the same. “Dr. Lecter?”

“Yes; hello, Will.” His throat felt incredibly dry, and he wasn't sure if he was prepared to carry out a full conversation over the phone. Conveniently, a glass of water that he didn't recall placing there was next to his bed. He took a deep draught from it, sitting on the edge of the bed with the phone. The liquid was blissfully cool on his parched throat.

“I, erm,” Will was obviously searching for the right words, “I was worried about you.”

“... what day is it today?”

“It's Sunday night.” Ah, little wonder, Hannibal thought. He had been unconscious for nearly a day and a half. Rather alarming, he supposed. “Dr. Lecter… do you remember anything…?”

“Remember what, Will?” Hannibal frowned, brow furrowing.

“I… uh, never mind.” From the other end, Will coughed, a polite cough. Normally, Hannibal would have been interested, but at the moment his headache was preventing him from giving much thought about this exchange.

“I was ill, I apologize -”

“Please, don’t worry about it. I hope you’re feeling better.”

“I am, thank you. I think I can see patients as usual tomorrow.”

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Hannibal answered, but he was not sure at all.

"Well, then... I'll see you tomorrow evening?"

"Of course. Have a good night, Will."

* * *

Will's appointment was on Monday this week, 7:30p.m. He didn't know what to expect as he waited for Hannibal to come to the door of the waiting room. His imagination proved itself to be overactive once again. Hannibal seemed slightly paler than usual, perhaps barely noticeably gaunter in the face, but otherwise he looked as he always did - impeccably dressed and groomed to perfection. It almost made Will wonder if his intrusion of the doctor’s bedroom two days ago was merely a product of his mind.

He greeted Will with a smile. "Hello, Will. Come in."

"Thanks."

As Hannibal moved to take his seat, Will noticed that the way he was carrying himself seemed to be somehow asymmetrical, unlike him. His curiosity got the best of him.

“Dr. Lecter… are you injured?” He asked carefully.

“Hm?” Hannibal raised an eyebrow, and then made an atypically vague gesture towards his arm. “Ah, yes, I was bitten by a dog earlier last week; I think it may have contributed to my illness.”

“A dog?” Something about it surprised Will.

“An unlucky incident in the park. Nothing significant.”

Will frowned. "Did you get that looked at?"

"Yes. Thank you for your concern." Hannibal coughed, several times. After he had caught his breath back, he said to Will, his voice rough, "I hope you don't mind if I get some water."

"No, of course not," Will replied, his frown only turning deeper.

"Thank you." Hannibal stood up, still looking peculiarly unsteady. Will watched as Hannibal made two steps from the chair; then his knees seemed to buckle under him and he simply dropped on the spot, a small sound escaping him. Will couldn't help but stare for a split second, the sight before him so _alien_.

" _Dr. Lecter!_ " He rushed forward to try to catch Hannibal before he fell, but he was heavy and they ended up in a tangled heap on the floor. Will cursed inwardly, scolding himself for not calling the hospital on Saturday when he should have. He struggled out from under Hannibal and pulled both himself and the psychiatrist into a sitting position. Hannibal mumbled something, and his head lolled limply against Will's shoulder. _Shit, he's burning up again_. 

Will managed to drag Hannibal over to the couch, but it took more labouring to pull the larger man up onto it. Will was just taking out his phone to call the hospital when Hannibal's voice interrupted, weaker than usual, "I'm fine."

Without looking up from his phone, Will said, "Clearly, you're not. You should go see a doctor."

"It won't be necessary." Hannibal almost sounded petulant.

"I disagree."

" _Will_. I'll be fine. I just... need some rest."

Will retorted, finally looking up, "I'd believe you if you hadn't just _fainted_ in the middle of a session."

"It's simply a headache."

"Mm-hm." 

Hannibal seemed peeved, ever so slightly. "A particularly bad one, nothing to be worried about, nevertheless."

"I still think you should -" 

"I appreciate your concern, but it isn't necessary." Hannibal had regained his composure; his tone of voice was as authoritative and in control as always. He turned on the couch, putting his legs over the side, and faced Will. A lock of his hair had fallen out of place and into his eyes, disturbing his image of crisp put-togetherness. "I take care of myself unless absolutely necessary. I prefer not to see other doctors."

"I've never seen you this unwell before."

"I, too, am only human. I have my bad days. At those times I usually take time off from my practice."

"That might be a good idea now."

"Perhaps you're right. I must apologize for this, it was unexpected..."

"Please don't worry about it. I'll go now." Will got up. As he turned to leave, he asked, "Will you be all right to drive?"

"I think so," Hannibal answered. Will was suspicious, but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Later, Will found out that Hannibal had cancelled for the rest of the week. He wasn't sure whether to be worried or relieved.

* * *

By Thursday, Hannibal was feeling much better. Tuesday and Wednesday had been quite unpleasant, not unlike the weekend. In truth, he had impressed himself by holding out through Monday until Will's session. He had only one other patient that day, but staying conscious and alert through the whole afternoon had been a challenge. Hannibal had gone home and straight to bed after Will had left, but found that he was unable to sleep for most of the night. Along with fever, he was plagued by severe aches everywhere in his body; he felt them deep within his bones and could scarcely get up from bed. He also had a constant, splitting headache that allowed him little room for any coherent thought. Over the course of Wednesday, the symptoms gradually faded until he felt well enough to venture downstairs and make himself a decent, if simple, dinner.

He slept more or less soundly that night, but this time he was accompanied by odd dreams. Their contents slipped from his grasp like wisps of smoke, frustratingly indistinct. Particular sensations - or were they emotions - seemed to feature prominently, but he could not pinpoint these either. They were unfamiliar to him, almost like he was feeling them through a stranger. He lay awake for several minutes in the dark, attempting to piece together the dreams, but it was to no avail.

In the morning, he was breathing heavily when he awoke, but he could not say exactly why. Hannibal felt more or less physically normal as he slid out of bed. He still didn't fully trust his body's capabilities, so his choice to take time off for the entire week had been a wise one. His stomach kept his breakfast down, and he could think clearly for the first time in days. Hannibal went to take a shower, as he wasn't fond of smelling of sweat and sickness. The bite stung when it came in contact with the warm spray, but the shower was greatly refreshing. Before leaving the bathroom, he examined himself in the mirror, mentally tracing over the lines and crevices of his face. Bloodshot eyes, hollow cheeks, several days' growth of stubble lining his jaw - he looked positively terrible, he decided with a sigh. He couldn't help but find his razor and shave, at least.

Rubbing at his hair with a towel, he wandered into the study. Hannibal sat at his desk and found himself sketching a lupine figure on a scrap of loose paper. It was a decent likeness of the animal that had attacked him, nearly a week ago - it had hardly faded from his memory. Absently, he rubbed where the bite lay, itching and burning against the fabric of his shirt. It wasn't hurting like it had when he was sicker, but something was wrong. He had made sure the wound wasn't infected, so it was disconcerting that he had fallen so ill from it. He wondered if there were going to be any long-term effects. Only time would tell, he thought.

After a while, Hannibal realized that he was ravenously hungry. He set down the book he was reading, turned off the lamp and pushed back his chair. Pulling on a sweater, he went downstairs, considering the options for the afternoon's menu. It had been too long since he had eaten something substantial. Pursing his lips, he went to the refrigerator and took a look inside. A slab of red meat sat in a corner among some organs - Hannibal reached for it. He unwrapped it and set it on the counter, letting the metallic smell of the bloody meat fill his nostrils. He wiped his hands off and rolled up his sleeves, taking a knife into his hand, when the doorbell rang. 

Hannibal felt a twinge of irritation. Who could it possibly be? He set down the blade and went to answer the door. His head tilting, he said, "Will?"

Will looked apologetic, averting his eyes. "Hi. I... just wanted to check on you."

Hannibal sighed, stepping aside and holding the door open for him. "Come in."

"How are you doing?"

"Good. I can assure you that I'm not lying." And he wasn't. He did feel better.

"If you say so." Hannibal could tell that Will didn't believe him; the profiler's gaze was penetrating. He could almost feel Will's eyes on him like a physical touch, no doubt taking in his dishevelled appearance.

Changing the subject, Hannibal said, "Can I convince you to stay for lunch?"

Will was clearly hesitant. "Well, I..."

"I'm preparing steak," Hannibal said, already going in the direction of the kitchen and rolling up the sleeves of his sweater.

"Steak? For lunch?"

Hannibal glanced back at Will and only gave a small shrug. "I'm having a craving of sorts."

Will said with some doubt in his voice, "All right, if you don't mind." Looking down at his feet, he added, "I can't stay long - "

"I understand. More murders?"

"No, but Jack wants us to take advantage of this window before the killer strikes again. He's been working us like dogs. I'm wanted back at Quantico soon."

"Ah." _Most curious_. After a pause, Hannibal beckoned Will into the kitchen. He was very hungry.

* * *

Will watched Hannibal prepare the steak. Hannibal apologized for having to resort to leftover vegetables, as he had not had the chance to replenish his stock recently. Will couldn't have been able to tell had Hannibal not informed him. The meal was delicious, even though the meat was cooked rarer than Will normally preferred. He watched Hannibal devour the contents of his plate with an uncharacteristically unrestrained enthusiasm; Will assumed that he hadn't been eating well all week, judging by how he looked. 


End file.
